


Part II: The Body Political

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [5]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byakuya tutors Rukia to the detriment of the manor.  A Kuchiki elder discusses Hisana's subversive nature.  Rukia receives her rank, and, in her excitement, sees something that she should not have seen.  Renji makes an interesting observation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part II: The Body Political

* * *

 

**Part II:  Progress & Adaption **

_From among the peach-trees_

_"Blooming everywhere,"_

_The first cherry blossoms._

_–Matsuo Basho_

* * *

 

**_A year later…_ **

The teacup is warm against her hands.  Hands that have been chilled from the cool morning breeze of autumn’s air.  Bleary eyes, stinging with sleep, skim over the top of the cup and look through the white wisps of steam that rise from the tea.  A few long meters away, her sister and her husband are training with kido. 

_It is too early._

How their complex musculature manages to _function_ before daybreak stumps her.  She can barely _blink_ , and her brain is still trying to convince her to retreat into the bed.  The nice _warm_ bed.

Hisana shifts under the heavy blanket that she wraps around her shoulders, and she takes a long sip of the tea.  It burns her tongue before blazing its way down her throat.  Its warmth heats her entire chest, and she holds another swallow, letting the hotness imbue her.

 _Better_.

But, not _great_.

For a moment, she has clarity.  Her eyes begin to focus; the images are no longer blurry and doubled.   _Another sip_.  Her heart picks up the pace, pumping energy across her tired body.  After another mouthful, she feels somewhat revived, and she stares ahead. 

Her husband yells something at her sister and shoots Rukia a heated stare. 

Rukia sinks down slightly, as if admitting fault, before setting up the maneuver again.  She is resolute, and her resoluteness seems to please Byakuya. 

Hisana takes her eyes off the pair for a moment to stare down into her tea bowl, and…

 _CRASH_. 

Byakuya deflected one of Rukia’s spells, sending a burst of reiatsu careening off course and colliding into the house.   The spell crackles and singes the air and the wood.  A plume of dust and smoke billows from a wall, and the smells of scorched earth and sulfur fill her lungs.

Hisana’s eyes go wild, and she lets out a dry cough, suffocating on the thick black cloud. 

An electric blast sears down her spine, and she has to concentrate on whether it is from her shock or the attack.  With breath coldly clenched in chest, her eyes shift to the side to see a large hole where there once was wall only a few meters from her left shoulder. 

“Antiques!” she cries out in a panic.

Both her husband and sister wheel around to her.  Rukia is breathless, and her cheeks flush from embarrassment.  When she meets her sister’s pale, confused face, she instantly goes rigid and slinks down like a guilt-ridden dog. 

Byakuya, however, examines Hisana with great concern.  Astutely, his eyes read each line of her face and every contour of her body until he is satisfied that no harm has come to her.  When he finishes his inspection, he cocks a brow as if to say, ‘ _Really?’_

“The house _is_ an antique!” Hisana teases back at his unspoken question.  

She gives an exaggerated shake of her head and peels herself up from the floor.  _Better notify the servants_.  _It will take some time to locate a proper contractor and to have the damage repaired_ , she thinks to herself.  They will need to place a tarp or _something_ over the hole in the wall in the meanwhile—anything to hide the mess and to protect what remains of the room.

After alerting the steward, who seemed to be in a state of great distress at hearing the commotion, she takes refuge inside her quarters.  _Not going to become kindling today,_ she muses to herself.  Not when she has such an important meeting with the Five Families. 

A small desk stationed in the corner of her room provides an adequate sanctuary for her thoughts.  She sits pensively, staring at the wall across the room.  _Repose, Hisana_.  Her heart, however, defies her inner thoughts and decides to buzz in her chest like an angry hornet. 

Closing her eyes, she attempts to refocus.  Never has she felt this nervous or this uncertain about _anything_.  Normally at the annual meeting of the Five Families, she sits quietly and agrees with the Kuchiki elders.  She is merely an ornament.  Nothing more.  Nothing less. 

 _He won’t be there._  

The thought and its implications prove treacherous.  Her heart stops hard in her chest.  So hard that it shoots vibrations throughout her entire system.  It is a _first_ —her husband will not attend the meeting today.  He has division business, or so he tells her. 

She wonders if he is merely providing an _opportunity_ to prove her mettle as Lady Kuchiki.  The thought has crossed her mind for the last few weeks, but she has never questioned her husband.  She never would.  If he believes in her, then she should as well.  It is his lesson for her.

A very hard lesson, at that.

Suddenly, she appreciates the fact that she leans on him so much during those meetings.  He is always so steady, so constant.  She wonders what she would do without him.  Now, especially, since she has become Lady Kuchiki, the mere thought of the deprivation that his loss would cause in her seems _unbearable_.

She shudders, but no amount of blankets will save her from the icy hand of doubt. Her fraying nerves spool out even further when she considers the family's likely opposition to the proposal.  How long, exactly, they have been planning this sabotage?  She can only guess.  But, rumors of private meetings with other clan heads have a grain of truth.  Not that she didn't think the family would find way to irrevocably injure her plans.   

In a moment, her entire body eases.  An assuaging gust pulls at the taut strings of her muscles until they come undone.  She inhales an easy breath, and she smiles. 

As expected, the door _cracks_ back, and he enters.

Observing the perspiration prickling at the sides of his face, she smiles knowingly.  “You’re sweating.”  It is a first for her sister.

“Rukia is improving,” he observes, stopping an arm’s length from her before offering her his hand. 

He hates her quarters.  He cannot abide it.  Never once have they taken a meal or tea in that room.  She cannot remember them sharing the room even to rest.  He only comes to collect her when he is away because she refuses to occupy his quarters without his presence or without purpose.

Briefly, she wonders why he dislikes the room so much, but she pushes the thought away as she takes his hand.  “You have a Super Secret meeting today,” she notes.  A wry grin lengthens her lips, and she eyes him slyly.  For all the assurances that he cannot make the Meeting of the Five Families, he has never expanded on what this meeting at the Sixth entails. 

His brows rise at her look.  “You have a proposal today to make in Chambers,” he deflects. 

The pair cross into his bedroom, where she drops into a well-practiced seiza, and she pours him a cup of tea.  Her actions are deft and reflexive—a force of habit.  And, yet, she feels his eyes on her, and the nerves in her fingers spark in response. 

She does not miss a movement, and, just as he likes, she lets her sleeve pull back to expose the white skin of her wrist.  She can hear him inhale at the sight, and she smiles demurely.  “Your tea,” she murmurs to him coyly.

He takes it from her, but his eyes never shift from hers. In fact, he deepens his look, and she wonders what secrets he finds in the depths of her stare.   

“The proposal,” she starts, breaking the gaze to pour herself a fresh cup, “will be delivered by Lord Shihōin.”

“Aunt Masuyo will accompany you today,” he murmurs before taking a sip.

Hisana presses her lips together, but she is too slow.  Her smile escapes.  “Of course,” she replies darkly.

Ever perceptive, Byakuya inclines his head and studies her for a long moment.  “She has been rallying the opposition,” he observes shrewdly. 

Hisana keeps her gaze fixed on the fragrant water swirling in her tea bowl.  “She has been meeting independently with the Takatsukasa clan for the last few months.”

“And the Konoe Family?”  Her husband’s words are sharp and piercing, and she shivers.  It has been a long while since she has heard such an edge to his voice. 

_Not since…_

Her eyes widen, and her breath draws into her chest where it sits in her lungs like a giant ball.  _How could I have forgotten?_ she chides herself. 

It is the Anniversary.  A very portentous anniversary at that.  She is beside herself for forgetting; although, it’s not quite a thing she wishes to remember.  She pushes the thought away, deep into the recesses of her brain.

“Tadahiro sent a missive late yesterday,” she begins, and, before her husband can make his request, she is on her feet.  Nimble fingers pluck the letter from his desk.  “I placed it here, thinking you would see it.” 

He arrived at the estate so late that night; he must’ve missed it.           

She proffers the letter, and he takes it from her with an eagerness that would be imperceptible to most, but she has mastered his many moods and expressions well. 

He is displeased with this correspondence.  Mostly, she thinks, he is displeased that Tadahiro would send the missive to _her_ and not to the head of the family.

Without hesitation, he snaps the letter open.  The sharp rip of the paper’s fiber pulling, startles her, but she settles into place.  She dares to glimpse him with a quick look.  He reads the words with a predatory gaze. 

“He seems amiable to the proposal,” she says quietly, keeping her gaze to the tatami. 

Her husband rolls the letter and replaces it in its envelope.  “If he is there,” he states cooly, almost threateningly. 

Hisana’s gaze remains downcast, and she nods.  “He has been away on business for many months.”  Her voice goes soft, and it trails on the stale air.  Flickers of his reiatsu curl around her, and she feels the intensity of his rancor graze her skin.

“I should ensure he stays away for many more.”  He sets the communication aside and takes another sip of tea.

Hisana musters a gentle look and smiles up at him.  “So that meeting of yours?”

He turns to her.  His features smooth when they lock eyes, and he exhales a small breath.  He still isn’t pleased, but it is an improvement.

“What is it about?”  Her smile lengthens, and a hopeful look colors her visage. 

In an even movement, his eyelids slip down, and he shakes his head.  “It is confidential.”

He is harassing her.  She knows it.  His tight-lipped response tortures her with her own imagination. 

“Is it confidential because it is _dangerous_?” she purrs, leaning forward, closing the space between them.

He lifts his head and glances down at her in a look that tells her that he will not capitulate to her whims.  Not this time, at least.

“Or,” she begins, her voice becoming increasingly breathy, and she glances up at him suggestively, “is it because…”

Her breath ghosts across his face.  He can smell the fragrance of tea and honey mixing with her white plum perfume, and he leans in for a kiss, but she stops him.

“…there is _no meeting_.”  She pulls away before he can catch her, and she folds her arms against her chest.

He grins at her, and the icy fury that once darkened his eyes recedes.  “There is a meeting,” he observes.  “It has been on the schedule for nearly a year.”   

Hisana’s eyes narrow, and she gives him a playful onceover.  “Is that so?” and her eyes dart over to the calendar.  Her lips part, but he silences her with a kiss.

She flails and falls into his lap—a heap of perfumed silk— but she knows he is contented when she feels his arms wrap around her.  He buries his head in her hair, and she can feel his chest expand against her back. 

Nuzzling into her neck, he rests his chin on her shoulder, and the two stare into the garden.  Rukia practices with her Zanpakutō in the adjoining yard.  “She takes her test today,” Hisana murmurs. 

“That reminds me,” he says, untangling himself from her. 

She lets out a small whimper when she feels his body’s warmth and comfort pull away, but he returns quickly and wraps her up with haste.  “I thought she might need this.”  In his hand, he holds a wrapped package. 

“What is it?” Hisana asks, turning her head slightly so that she can get a better look at him. 

“Tekkō.  She’ll need them as she begins to rely on her sword more.”  His breath heats the shell of Hisana’s ear, and his arms tighten when he feels her shiver.  “Here,” he says, slipping the gift into her hands.

Hisana turns in his arms and smiles up at him.  “Lord Kuchiki, your kindness is touching, but I think she would prefer if you gave the gift to her.  Personally.”

He seems a little shocked by his wife’s advice.  “Do you think it is appropriate?”

Hisana’s smile weakens as she attempts to ascertain his meaning.  _Appropriate?  A gift.  From you.  She will be ecstatic._

“The gift,” he elaborates.

Hisana nods.  “Very tasteful.”  She often forgets how uncertain he can be when the situation takes a dive into the realm of interpersonal matters.  “She will love them.”  Hisana cups a side of his face in her hand and tucks a few stray hairs back.  “Thank you,” she whispers before pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

* * *

 

“One, two, three,” Rukia counts, trying to match her strokes to the beat that she sets for herself.  Sweat drips from her chin, travels down her neck, and dampens her already moist robes.  _Just a little longer_ , she keeps telling herself, refusing to heed the burning prickles that roll up and down her arms and legs. 

When she is satisfied with her form, she sheaths her blade, bows to the maple tree that she pretends is the judge, and crosses the yard back to her room, strips, bathes, and garbs herself in her brand new Shihakushō.  It is the first time that she has donned the black and white uniform, and she starts when she sees herself in the mirror. She has waited for this day for a whole year, long and painful.  She has waited for the moment where she could wear the Shihakushō and call herself a Shinigami.

She still has the officer test to complete, however.  It is her last obstacle before she can assume a position at the Thirteenth.  The last item on her To-Do-List before her training ends and her career begins.

Her heart throbs in her chest at the thought.

She would no longer be Rukia, the Student.  She would be Rukia, the Soul Reaper.  For some reason, the change in role proves horrifying.

The number of ways in which she can screw up seems to increase by a mile.  Beginning with the officer’s test.

 _Brother has been so generous to tutor me_ , she thinks to herself, still staring distantly at her reflection.  _I hope I can honor his kindness._   Indeed, the thought of _not_ being assigned a seated position sinks her heart and draws the bile from her stomach.  It would be disgraceful, and she would feel so unworthy of all the time, money, and effort Brother and Sister have spent on her success.

It would have been easier if she had remained in the Academy.

“Lady Kuchiki,” the steward’s voice rumbles through the door.  “Mr. Abarai waits in the vestibule.”

 _He’s early_ , she thinks to herself.  _Must be nervous._   She knows she is nervous, and she already has her division assignment.  He has neither right now. 

Rukia nods before realizing that the steward cannot _see_ her.  “Yes, thank you,” and she bows out of habit.

Seeing the steward’s inky silhouette creep across the rice paper, Rukia turns to the garden door and breathes a small sigh of relief.  At least she has someone to escort her to the Academy.  Renji and his friends have proved to be so much more than fellow students, and she is glad to have the warmth of camaraderie up until the very last minute.

In a wild motion, she throws back the garden door and bolts across the threshold.  She is scampering across the breezeway when the sound of a familiar voice and the sensation of a familiar reiatsu washes over her. 

“Sister!” Hisana calls from behind her. 

Rukia whirls around in excitement, already knowing that her sister and brother stand at her back.

“Sister!” Rukia cries back and waves. 

Hisana gestures for her to approach, and, Rukia obliges.  Eagerly.  Too eagerly.  She takes two steps and falls flat on her face.  Her arm shoots up, and she gives a limp-wristed wave, “I’m alright,” she says meekly.

Before she has the chance to pick herself up off the hardwood, her sister is at her side, cupping her chin in her hand and dabbing the sleeve of her kimono to the bleeding gash that splits her bottom lip.

“Oh, dear,” Hisana murmurs, pressing the silken fabric of her sleeve fast against the wound.  “How much pain?”

Rukia shakes her head.  “It is nothing,” she says, hoping her earnest look will offset her flushing cheeks.  It doesn’t.

“Are you certain?  I can call for the physician.”

Rukia glances up to find not only her sister’s worried look but her brother, also, peering down at her.  His brows furrow as he observes the damage. 

Rukia wants to melt into the ground.  Or hide.  One or the other.  She definitely does not want to be the source of their pitying looks.  “I am well,” she says, her voice cracking diffidently.

Hisana presses her lips together and gives a slight nod.  “If you aren’t,” she begins as she wipes the dirt from Rukia’s face, “you let me know.” 

“Yes, Sister,” Rukia murmurs, sheepishly.  She takes her sister’s hand and falls into Hisana’s sweet hug.

“I am so proud of you,” Hisana says, giving Rukia a tight squeeze before pulling away to observe Rukia’s expression. “You will do great.”

Rukia’s eyes drop to the ground.  “Thank you, Sister.”

“Here,” a low baritone yanks her gaze up.

 _Did Brother say something?_   Her heart drops to her feet as she glances up to find him offering her a small wrapped parcel.

“It is a gift.” His gaze trails to the side as if he is unaccustomed to such acts.  He is clearly unsure of what to do or say.

Touched, Rukia takes it from his hands and opens it.  White tekkō—just like the ones he wears.  If possible, her face turns an even deeper shade of red, and she bows deeply.  “Thank you so much,” she rattles out, shaken by his kindness.  “I will cherish them.”

“You will _need_ them as you begin training with your Zanpakutō with greater frequency,” he says in his quiet tenor.

“Yes, Brother.  Thank you.  I am eternally grateful.”

Hisana smiles down at Rukia before glancing up at Byakuya.  “Let us know when you receive your results, Rukia.”

“Yes, Sister!”

* * *

 

“Your _wife_!”

Byakuya doesn’t have to glance up.  The high-pitched howl could only belong to one person—his perpetually flustered aunt.  She squawks and flaps about the room like a loud exotic bird, sloughing her figurative feathers and waddling under her layers of brightly colored plumage. 

And, yet he does not spare her a single glance.  Instead, he continues his division paperwork.  There is no point in engaging. 

He already knows what’s coming. 

That morning, right when he woke, he knew his aunt would have her conniption in his office.  It was the first thought that entered his head when he turned to his slumbering wife in the bed.  It was also the last thought in his head when he bid his determined wife farewell that day.

He knows his aunt is about to lay into him for whatever perceived infraction that occurred during the Annual Meeting of the Five Families.  

_She must’ve lost her gamble._

Byakuya frowns. 

Right then, he is unsure of whether he would have chosen his wife or his aunt to exit the Chambers victorious.  While he approves of his wife’s _scheme_ , Hisana takes her defeats in stride like a proper Lady. 

His aunt?   

He has a sinking feeling that he will be hearing about this for _decades_. 

“The proposal is seditious, Lord Kuchiki!  _And_ subversive!”

“Seditious and subversive are synonyms.  You’re being redundant,” he breathes between brush strokes.   _She's being extravagant_ , is what he really thinks to himself, and he has so little patience dealing with someone with so little sense.

She stops mid-step and gawks at him.  She can’t read his expression—his usual icy indifference proves to be an effective mask—and she lets out a pitiful cry.  “Lord Kuchiki!  You should have seen her!  She was so _brazen_ and _disgraceful_.  When I opposed the proposal that Lord Shihōin made, she _pretended_ to support my view.  _But she didn’t_.  It was just a guise to emphasize all of the proposal’s strengths.”

Byakuya smirks at this, which absolutely tortures his aunt. 

Of course, Hisana would do that.  She probably had been planning it for a month.  He wishes he could have been there to witness it, but, if he had been there, his aunt would not have made the motion, and Hisana’s proposal would have fallen.

“Lord Konoe agreed to the proposal, I take it,” he observes, deadpan.  He thumbs through the paperwork for a moment before moving onto the next incident report. 

“Yes,” his aunt hisses like a deflating tire.

A corner of his mouth slopes down at this.  “Tadahiro was present, then.” 

“Yes,” she sneers.  “You know, if you had represented the family’s interests, _this_ would not have happened!”

 _True_. 

Tadahiro would have stood with the opposition if he had been present, and he would have done it out of pure spite.  The two men had a falling out many years ago, and the mutual animosity has only swelled with time.  The points of distinction between them have become so numerous that, with each year, Byakuya forgets they have _anything_ in common.  Breathing and bleeding seem to be the beginning and end of their commonalities.

“His words, milord, were, and I quote, _‘Anything for Lady Hisana.’_ ”  His aunt’s face goes motionless, frozen in slack-jawed repugnance. 

Surely, his aunt finds the statement to be an indictment of his wife’s character.  And perhaps it is.  Hisana consorted with Tadahiro at one point in her life.  A very dark point in her life, he reminds himself as soon as he feels the contents in his stomach shift at the thought.

His gaze flits up to his aunt, who remains frozen in a state of visceral repulsion.  Briefly, he wonders if she has had a stroke, and he contemplates how long it would take to ensure that she was beyond medical help before he sends for the healer. 

“Can you _believe_ it? The implications!” she cries and throws her head back in some overwrought emotion. 

Byakuya clenches his jaw at this, but for an entirely different reason.  “There was a quorum to approve the proposal,” he states flatly, careful not to expose his contempt for his aunt’s previous sentiments. 

“We were the only ones who formally opposed it.”

Byakuya cocks a brow at this.  He is slightly taken aback that the Takatsukasa fell into line, but, with Hisana’s _performance_ , it may have led the other clans to believe the objection was overruled.  The Takatsukasa would not stand to be the only clan to oppose the proposal.  It would have been improper and borderline foolish. 

So, it was unanimous.  The proposal went unopposed.  He plucks a blank sheet of paper.  Quick inky marks serve to remind him to check the minutes of the meeting.  It is a gentleman’s wager that the vote is notated as a 5-0. 

“So there we have it!  Our hard-earned money on a fool’s bet,” she fusses and stamps her foot. “And for what?  Heathens!  We can’t possibly trust _heathens_.  This will never work.”

For the first time since she barreled into his office, he acknowledges her.  “Investing beyond Seireitei seems prudent at this point.”

Her expression blackens, and she gapes at him.  “Lord Kuchiki, you cannot possibly be taken in by _that harlot’s_ false promises.  This is just a way for her to divert funds from Seireitei to Rukongai.”

“No,” he says sternly. He will abide his aunt’s incessant kvetching if it spares Hisana the agony, but he _refuses_ to tolerate disrespect toward his wife.   “We are expanding our family’s enterprises,” he continues with a sense of finality hardening in his voice.  “The proposal stands.  That was all I needed to know.” 

The unspoken sentiment: _You are dismissed._  

He then returns to his paperwork.  A remote unfeeling look chills his features, and he sends a blast of reiatsu hurling toward her, urging her to the door. 

The conversation is officially over. 

At his cold dismissal, she balls her fists at her side.  Flabbergasted—she is completely flabbergasted and fuming.  She whirls around on her heels and stomps toward the door.  Before exiting, she pauses and manages a patronizing bow.  “I will not let _her_ ruin our family, Lord Kuchiki,” she yelps before throwing back the door and storming out. 

He exhales a small sigh, and, setting down his brush, he glances out the window.   _A millennium_ , he decides finally.  He will hear about this day for a _millennium_. 

He shakes his head.

His aunt’s antics almost eclipse his good news. 

 _Almost_.

Reflexively, his eyes drift to the white haori draped across the back of his chair.  The garment’s cobalt blue lining catches his eyes for a brief moment.  A warm sense of accomplishment rushes through him, and he lets it sink in for a second longer before returning to his work.

* * *

 

Hisana quietly arranges a few dishes.  Her lips pull to the side and she heaves a heavy breath.  _Still not quite right_ , and she wonders if it ever will be. 

For the twentieth time, she rearranges the assortment, but shuffling the deck does not prove to quell her deep dissatisfaction.  _Damn it_ , her inner critic hisses in her head.  _How did he use to like it? Way back when…_   She stops herself, feeling a strange private heat creep across her back and cheeks.  She tries to push the memories away, but she has a feeling they will buoy back up to the surface again.  

“Eh,” she grunts her frustration as she tries another configuration.  Then, suddenly, she wonders if it isn’t the arrangement that perturbs her but the reason she is setting the dishes.  Her lips slope into a frown.  _I am being selfish_ , she chastises herself, and she drops her head a little.  _He is so powerful and talented.  He deserves it_. 

Yet, her heart chills like a winter’s early frost.  Pensively, she sits, staring down at the tatami, sorting through it all.  She knows it will take some time to adjust.  She can accept it, and, glancing up, she swallows her somberness and forces a strained smile. 

The sparkle in her eyes when she sees him, however, is genuinely felt.   Immediately, she rises and greets him at the door.  She puts a leash on her private feelings for his sake.  “How fashionable,” she calls, teasingly eying his recent _addition_ , “it suits you.”

As he crosses the threshold, her fingers catch in the white fabric of his newly earned white haori.  The fabric is sleek, cooling her warm palms as they play in the loose folds. 

“You don’t seem surprised,” he observes, head bending toward hers. 

“Why should I be?  You are so strong, milord.  It was only a matter of time.”  She laces her fingers through his, and her eyes are downcast. 

Right then, he spots something out of the corner of his eye, and he glances past her to see she has set a celebratory dinner for him.  “You knew.”  His voice deflates a little at this.

Her smile widens, and she lifts her head.  “I have my sources,” she giggles lightly. 

“Who?” he asks, squeezing her hands. 

She arches a brow.  “A woman must have her mystery, milord.  How else can she keep her lover guessing?”  She takes his hand and leads him to the feast.

“I could unspool your secrets for centuries and never hope to near the end,” he says longingly under his breath.

She shakes her head, ignoring his comment for the time being.  “I am very proud of you, Lord Byakuya.  Not that you need _me_ to commend your skills.”  Her fingers are quick to peel the haori from his shoulders, and she relieves him of his Zanpakutō.  “Tonight we should celebrate anyway you wish.  This is merely an offering,” she says, waving at the food, tea, and sake set for him.

“Anyway I wish?” he echoes, watching her with a hooded look. 

His voice is low and rich.  It rushes over her and _through_ her.  She starts for a moment before storing his belongings lovingly in their rightful place. 

His eyes follow her, and she can _feel_ his stare, as if he is touching her.  Heat pricks at her back before sinking into her core.  His reiatsu isn’t helping matters much, either.  He pours it on thick, practically begging her to acknowledge him.  And, she does just that.  She turns fixes him with a sultry gaze, the very one that she has mastered over nearly a century of practicing.  “Anyway you wish, my _Captain_.”  

* * *

 

“How do you think you did?” Renji asks, following Rukia into a spacious room.  Tea and food have been set for them on a small table.  But she cannot focus.  Her heart hums in her chest like the wings of a hummingbird—quick, fast and unyielding.

Dropping into seiza on a cushion, she glances down.  “I haven’t looked at the results,” she admits, sheepishly.  Couldn’t bring herself to perform the simple act of unsealing the envelope and _looking_.

“Do you want me to open it?” he asks impatiently.  He tries to gasp the paper from her hands, but she keeps it out of reach.

“No,” she says forcefully.  “I am waiting for Sister.”

“For Lady Kuchiki?  To do what?”  His brows furrow, betokening his clear confusion.  “Hold your hand while you open it?” he kids her.  “Stroke your back and tell you everything is going to _okay_ ,” he mocks with a devious glance.

 _Maybe_ , Rukia thinks guiltily.  “What does it matter to you?” she snaps.  A playful glint burns in her eyes.

“I dunno?  Maybe I thought we’d go out.”

“What if it’s _bad_?” she gasps a little.  _Gods, please don’t let it be bad._

“See, that’s the thing about drinking.  You can do it when its good news _or_ bad,” he says with a philosophical air about him and a nod of his head.

Rukia leans back to stare through the slight rectangular opening in the door.  Craning her neck, she spies the item for which she is searching.   “Brother is in residence,” she murmurs as if that _means_ anything to Renji.

“How do you know?” he asks, reaching for a cup of tea.

She blinks, confused.

He tilts his head to the side and shoots her a chastising glare.  “How do you know?” he repeats himself between sips.

“The lantern is on,” she replies cryptically.

Again, he stares at her, silently urging her to expound on her previous observation. 

Rukia furrows her brow.  “The servants turn on the lantern when Brother comes home so they know not to disturb him and Sister.”

Renji lifts his brows at this, and she can tell he finds it intensely odd.  “Why?”

Rukia purses her lips.  “Long story.”

“What do they do in there?”

Immediately, her fingers brush against the wood of the door before clenching and drawing it shut.  “Sister sometimes performs a tea ceremony,” she says, shrugging. 

 _How would she know?_   It’s not like her sister gives her a schedule every week; although, she wouldn’t put it past Hisana to _have_ some such schedule.  If she did, however, she certainly did not share it. 

“ _Tea ceremony?_ ” he sounds incredulous. 

Rukia crosses her arms in front of her, and, nervously, her fingers curl around her cushion.  “Yeah?” she says as if to imply that all wives perform tea ceremonies for their husbands.  Why not?  It isn’t like Rukia has many other models of wifedom, and her sister and brother seem happy.  “She also plays the shamisen and the koto for him sometimes.”

Renji’s lips split into a wolfish grin.  “Please tell me that she does ikebana and has a fondness for dance.”

Rukia cocks a brow.  “What if she does?”  Why would that matter?  Her forehead wrinkles as she catches a whiff of insinuation.  “Are you trying to imply something about _my sister_?” she tries to sound menacing, but her company knows her too well. 

“Nothing.  Other than it sounds like she was a,” Renji’s voice trails off, allowing her the opportunity to fill in the blank.

Rukia, however, just stares at him, benighted.  “What?” her brows lower over her wide innocent eyes. 

“ _You know_ ,” his voice lingers in the air suggestively.  “That she was once an,” he adds, nodding as he silently completes the observation in his head.

Rukia stares at him, blankly.  She has no idea what point he is driving at, but she has a sinking feeling that she wouldn’t like it if he told her.

Renji chuckles at her naiveté and waves a hand in her direction.  “Was once a very skillful _artisan_.”

Rukia frowns at his choice in words.  “You are being _childish_ ,” she huffs, folding her arms against her chest.   “And don’t speak ill of my sister!” Punctuating her displeasure, she gives him a slow disapproving shake of her head.

Renji braces against her harsh words.  “I would never speak ill of your sister!” he retorts, seemingly incensed that she would accuse him of such a thing.  “She’s like a sister to _me_.” 

The lines of Rukia’s face become hard, and she turns her head.  As much as she hates to admit it, he has a point.  Hisana always treats Renji as if he is a member of the family—like a surrogate brother of sorts.   “Eh,” she sighs, and she jerks her chin up to shoot him a skeptical look. 

_Oh, no!_

He leans in. 

Before she has the chance to sabotage it, he springs his trap, snatching her prized envelope from her fingertips. She grasps at air.  _Damn it, Renji!_ She holds back her curses, allowing only a sharp mewl to escape from her lips. 

“Ha!” he chuckles, and he makes quick use of the seal.  A flick of the wrist later, and he balances the results between his index and middle fingers.  He makes a small teasing gesture in front of her face, but she is too slow to reclaim the paper.

“So, what does little Rukia get to do at the Thirteenth?” he coos, clearly enjoying the torture he is laying on her.  “Let’s see.”

“You sure you can read it, Renji?” she quips.  “There may be some big words.”

“Shh,” he waves his hand dismissively as his greedy brown eyes hungrily take in each character.  Grinning, he turns to her and says, “Good job, Rukia!”  Playfully, he nudges her shoulder with his elbow.  “You are the Fifth Seat of the Thirteenth!” he declares proudly as if it is his own placement.  “Congratulations.”

She blinks.  “What?”  It is the only _thing_ —word, emotion, _sense_ —that jumps to mind.  Indeed, the totality of how she feels can be summed up with the word, “what.” 

“Yeah!  I hope, on Match Day, I get as lucky as you!”  He jovially pushes against her shoulder with his. 

She nods to herself.  “That’s good, right?  Fifth Seat?”

Renji’s brows furrow.  “You weren’t expecting to be made Vice Captain, right?" his voice is thick with irony.  "That position is already taken.”

She rolls her eyes at him.  “No.”  She _wasn’t_ _expecting to be Vice Captain_ …  _Renji_.  She represses the urge to scoff at him.

“Sounds plenty good to me,” Renji says.  “Does your sister know?”

Rukia’s gaze flicks to the garden door.  _Probably_ , she thinks as she considers the possibility.  Her sister seems to know _everything_ like some kind of beekeeper but, instead of bees, she keeps _secrets_.  It is a talent if nothing else—a talent that seems to shock _both_ her and her brother-in-law on the regular. 

Shaking her head and the thoughts away, she pins Renji with a look and arches a black eyebrow.   “Well, Renji,” Rukia begins, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I haven’t told her.”

He shrugs.  “Seems like she would know, yunno?  She takes tea with Captain Ukitake.”

Rukia furrows her brows.  “How did you know she takes tea with Captain Ukitake?”

“Saw ‘em leaving one of the tea houses today.  She seemed pleased.”

“Sister always seems pleased,” Rukia noted dryly.  Could mean nothing.  Could mean _anything_.

Renji nods.  “She’s got a lot to be pleased about.”  He makes a large sweeping motion with his arm.  “She’s the Lady of _this_.  All of it.”

Rukia gives a resolute nod of her head.  “Do you think I should tell her?”

Renji shrugs.  “ _Sure_.  I’d tell you.”

She rolls back onto her feet and stands.  “I will be right back.” Before he can protest, she is out the door.    

The halls are dark, but she has the steps memorized.  She knows the number of steps, all the corners, and which floorboards squeaked.   She had it down to a _science_ , and she was extra careful to approach the Lord and Lady’s quarters with a quiet tread and a soft heart. 

Part of her instinctively knows it is a bad idea to intrude.  Part of her doesn’t really consider the implications.  And part of her doesn’t care.  She is sure her sister will be pleased.

When she reaches the door, she kneels down.  Just as she is readying her hand to knock a knuckle against the wood, something catches her eye.  The door to their bedchambers is ajar.  A slight rectangle of light cascades from their room into the inky corridor.  The illumination creeps across Rukia’s face as she glimpses inside the chamber.

Her eyes go wide, and she quickly withdraws.  Her heart sputters and drums a heavy quick beat.  She can feel her pulse ache in her throat and arms, and she flees as quietly as possible.

The look was so short—a mere eyeful.  Yet, the image is rich and indelible.  She doesn’t understand it at first, and, as she shuts her eyes, the image cuts through her mental noise.  Its fidelity is startling.  The image is all ebony hair, silk robes, milky flesh and strange looks. 

It was such an innocent gaze.  Only a glimpse, she tells herself.  At first, she isn’t sure what she saw.  Loose silk pooled around her sister and brother-in-law.  Her brother’s face was the first thing that drew her eye—its lines were soft and smooth as if a master artist had sculpted it from the finest Carrara marble. 

But, his expression…  She had never seen it before.  Gone was the noble severity that usually cloaks him.  Instead, he seemed drunk; his eyes were half-lidded and heavy as he stared down, seeing yet unseeing.  An unfocused gaze.

Following his gaze, her eyes trailed from his face to his chest, which was partially exposed.  His robes were open but not completely removed.  Traveling a little further down to his hands, her heart skipped a beat and did not restart.

Dark silken strands of hair splayed across his hips.  The warm oranges and yellows of lantern light danced in the tresses, keeping time with the subtle movements of her sister’s head. Her sister’s back was toward her, but Rukia could tell Hisana’s robes were loose for they lapped over Byakuya’s, and they pooled unfettered around their bodies.

Rukia did not see the act itself, but she has a sinking feeling she knew what it was.  Colorful descriptions from her days in Inuzuri and the Academy fill her head, bridging her lack of experience in such matters.  Her initial suspicion was confirmed by the blissful look on her brother’s face and by the way his fingers tangled in her sister’s hair.

Pale and a little wobbly, Rukia returns to Renji.  Stepping across the threshold, she pauses, fighting to restrain her look of abject horror.  She does not succeed. 

Renji’s head bobs up at her presence, and he regards her with a look of confusion.   She knows there are words simmering on the tip of his tongue and drawing his lips, but she doesn’t want to hear them.  She doesn’t even know how to answer the questions that surely nip at his thoughts.

“Let’s get that drink,” she says before he has the chance to speak.


End file.
